When Roald Dahl Hosted His Own Creepy TV Show Way Out, a Companion to Rod Serling’s Twilight Zone (1961)

In an odd twist of his­to­ry, two of the wis­est and weird­est children’s writ­ers of their gen­er­a­tion also hap­pened to have both been fight­er pilots dur­ing World War II. Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, author of The Lit­tle Prince, flew recon­nais­sance mis­sions for the French Air Force before the 1940 armistice with Nazi Ger­many. Roald Dahl, author of—among many oth­ers—Char­lie and the Choco­late Fac­to­ry, James and the Giant Peach, and The BFG, flew with the Roy­al Air Force. Both wrote about their fly­ing exploits and both writ­ers, it so hap­pened, were once shot down over Libya, which also hap­pens to be the title of Dahl’s first pub­lished sto­ry, writ­ten for grown-ups and pub­lished in the Sat­ur­day Evening Post in 1946.

There are maybe oth­er uncan­ny sim­i­lar­i­ties, but one thing Saint-Exupéry nev­er turned his hand to is tele­vi­sion. Dahl, on the oth­er hand, had the oppor­tu­ni­ty to host two TV shows dur­ing his life­time: Way Out in 1961 and Tales of the Unex­pect­ed, which aired from 1979 to 1988 and fea­tured sev­er­al episodes based on Dahl’s own sto­ries. Although he has become renowned for his high-con­cept kid’s books, at the time of Dahl’s entrée onto the tube, he had main­ly achieved fame as a writer of macabre tales pub­lished in the New York­er as well as a script writ­ten for Alfred Hitch­cock Presents called “Lamb to the Slaugh­ter.”

Dahl seems a nat­ur­al fit for the medi­um, not only as a writer but as a pre­sen­ter, with his dry wit and suave per­son­al­i­ty. But his first show, Way Outeight episodes of which you can now watch on YouTube—came about entire­ly by acci­dent, or rather, as the serendip­i­tous result of anoth­er program’s spec­tac­u­lar fail­ure. This is no exag­ger­a­tion. Jack­ie Glea­son, per­haps the most famous come­di­an of his day, had decid­ed in 1961 to attempt a celebri­ty game show on CBS called You’re in the Pic­ture. The show was such a bomb that it only aired once, and the fol­low­ing week, Glea­son appeared on a bare stage for half an hour, the authors of a Film­fax Mag­a­zine arti­cle write, and “apol­o­gized to the Amer­i­can pub­lic for the insult to their intel­li­gence that had been per­pe­trat­ed the week before.”

This went on for sev­er­al more weeks, then Glea­son invit­ed celebri­ty friends on for impromp­tu inter­views and “when things start­ed get­ting des­per­ate,” had a chimp on as a guest star. One CBS net­work head at the time remem­bered the show lat­er as the great­est dis­as­ter of his decades-long career in tele­vi­sion. Enter pro­duc­er David Susskind, “a man who could deliv­er a pro­gram quick­ly and under pres­sure,” and a great fan of Roald Dahl. Cook­ing up the idea of “an eerie, chill­ing creepy dra­ma,” Susskind says, with “a nether world sense to it,” he approached Dahl with an offer to replace Gleason’s trav­es­ty with adap­ta­tions of his sto­ries and the oppor­tu­ni­ty to host.

Only one of Dahl’s sto­ries made it into the show, the first episode “William & Mary” (above), about a man plan­ning to become a brain in a jar. But the show was an instant hit with crit­ics, espe­cial­ly Dahl’s brief, dark­ly humor­ous open­ing and clos­ing mono­logues. One crit­ic described him as “a thin Alfred Hitch­cock, an East Coast Rod Ser­ling.” And like Serling’s show, Way Out—which was spelled in a title card after the first episode with an inex­plic­a­ble sin­gle apos­tro­phe as ’Way Out—traf­ficked in sci-fi and psy­cho­log­i­cal hor­ror. But the two shows were not in com­pe­ti­tion. Twi­light Zone and Way Out both aired on the same net­work, CBS, and the time slot of Gleason’s failed show hap­pened to direct­ly pre­cede The Twi­light Zone, just then end­ing its sec­ond sea­son. Dahl’s show was billed as a “com­pan­ion pro­gram” to Serling’s.

Sad­ly for all the praise show­ered upon Way Out, it did not attract a large enough audi­ence to get renewed for a sec­ond sea­son, and it would be anoth­er 18 years before Dahl returned to tele­vi­sion. But even had he nev­er returned, or nev­er even made his first pro­gram, Dahl’s sig­nif­i­cant con­tri­bu­tion to TV his­to­ry would be secure. His first chil­dren’s book, The Grem­lins, orig­i­nal­ly writ­ten in 1943 for a failed Dis­ney project, inspired what is per­haps the most well-known Twi­light Zone episode of them all, the William Shat­ner-star­ring “Night­mare at 20,000 Feet,” which involves a cer­tain ter­ri­fy­ing shock on an air­plane and was so effec­tive, it was remade for Twi­light Zone, the film. The episode adapt­ed a sto­ry by Richard Math­e­son, but it was Dahl who first came up with the idea.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Read a Nev­er Pub­lished, “Sub­ver­sive” Chap­ter from Roald Dahl’s Char­lie and the Choco­late Fac­to­ry

Roald Dahl, Who Lost His Daugh­ter to Measles, Writes a Heart­break­ing Let­ter about Vac­ci­na­tions

Alfred Hitch­cock Presents Ghost Sto­ries for Kids (1962)

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

Watch Steve Martin Make His First TV Appearance: The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour (1968)

“What if there were no punch lines?” asks Steve Mar­tin in his auto­bi­og­ra­phy Born Stand­ing Up. “What if there were no indi­ca­tors? What if I cre­at­ed ten­sion and nev­er released it? What if I head­ed for a cli­max, but all I deliv­ered was an anti­cli­max?” These ques­tions moti­vat­ed him to devel­op the dis­tinc­tive style of stand-up com­e­dy — in a sense, an anti-stand-up com­e­dy — that rock­et­ed him to super­star­dom in the 1970s. But before the world knew him as a ban­jo-play­ing fun­ny­man, Mar­tin worked for a cou­ple of his espe­cial­ly notable come­di­an-musi­cian elders: Tom and Dick Smoth­ers, bet­ter known as the Smoth­ers Broth­ers.

“We hap­pened to be walk­ing through the writer area of the show, and there he was, sit­ting at one of our writ­ers’ desks,” Tom says of Mar­tin on the 1968 broad­cast of The Smoth­ers Broth­ers Com­e­dy Hour above. “Lat­er we found out that he actu­al­ly was one of our writ­ers. Since he has­n’t been paid for his work, we thought we’d let him come out tonight and make a few dol­lars.”

So intro­duced, the 22-year-old Mar­tin begins his tele­vi­sion debut by re-intro­duc­ing him­self: “As Tom just said, I’m Steve Mar­tin, and I’ll be out here in a minute. While I’m wait­ing for me, I’d like to jump into kind of a socko-bof­fo com­e­dy rou­tine.” With his prop table ready, he then launch­es into “the fab­u­lous glove-into-dove trick.”

Though the stu­dio audi­ence may look pret­ty square by today’s stan­dards (or even those of the late 1960s), The Smoth­ers Broth­ers Com­e­dy Hour had already built a rep­u­ta­tion for push­ing the enve­lope of main­stream tele­vi­sion com­e­dy. Still, it’s safe to say that its audi­ence had nev­er seen any per­former – and cer­tain­ly not any prop com­ic — quite like Mar­tin before. In this short set, he per­forms a num­ber of delib­er­ate­ly botched or oth­er­wise askew mag­ic tricks, using his tone to gen­er­ate the humor. “If I kept deny­ing them the for­mal­i­ty of a punch line,” as he writes more than 40 years lat­er in Born Stand­ing Up, “the audi­ence would even­tu­al­ly pick their own place to laugh, essen­tial­ly out of des­per­a­tion. This type of laugh seemed stronger to me, as they would be laugh­ing at some­thing they chose, rather than being told exact­ly when to laugh.”

Watch­ing today, Mar­t­in’s fans will rec­og­nize his trade­mark sen­si­bil­i­ty more quick­ly than his appear­ance, since the clip pre­dates both the white suit and the white hair. Even then, he want­ed to per­form in a way that, in the words of The Guardian’s Rafael Behr, “would unnerve and alien­ate the audi­ence, but also, through self-dep­re­ca­tion, engage them in con­spir­a­cy against him­self.” Mar­tin seems to take a dim view of his own ear­ly tele­vi­sion work, hav­ing described him­self in a 1971 Vir­ginia Gra­ham Show appear­ance as “man­nered, slow and self-aware. I had absolute­ly no author­i­ty,” a qual­i­ty that he has since devel­oped in abun­dance, and of which “the art of hav­ing an act so bad it was good,” as Behr puts it, demands a sur­pris­ing amount.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Steve Mar­tin Will Teach His First Online Course on Com­e­dy

Steve Mar­tin & Robin Williams Riff on Math, Physics, Ein­stein & Picas­so in a Heady Com­e­dy Rou­tine (2002)

Steve Mar­tin on the Leg­endary Blue­grass Musi­cian Earl Scrug­gs

Steve Mar­tin Writes a Hymn for Hymn-Less Athe­ists

Steve Mar­tin, “Home Crafts Expert,” Explains the Art of Paper Wadding, Endors­es Bob Ker­rey

Steve Mar­tin Releas­es Blue­grass Album/Animated Video

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

How TV Addles Kids’ Brains: A Short Film Directed by Godfrey Reggio (Maker of Koyaanisqatsi) & Scored by Philip Glass

On Octo­ber 4, 1982, “more than 5,000 peo­ple filled the Radio City Music Hall to expe­ri­ence a remark­able event. That event was the world pre­miere of Koy­aanisqat­si.” So says the poster for the wide release of that film, an exper­i­men­tal doc­u­men­tary with­out spo­ken words on the nat­ur­al and man­made envi­ron­ment that nei­ther looked nor sound­ed — nor felt — like any­thing many of its view­ers had ever expe­ri­enced in a movie the­ater before.

Unable to muster any of their stan­dard reac­tions, they had no choice but to sit and observe as, in slow motion and fast motion and every speed in between, water­falls thun­dered, chasms yawned, sky­scrap­ers soared, com­muters scur­ried, and rock­ets launched before their eyes — all to the music of Philip Glass. You might say that Koy­aanisqat­si (see trail­er below), as well as its for­mal­ly sim­i­lar sequels Powaqqat­si and Naqoyqat­si, puts its view­ers in an altered state of mind.

The tril­o­gy’s direc­tor, a for­mer monk-in-train­ing named God­frey Reg­gio, might say the same thing about tele­vi­sion, whose flick­er­ing blueish pres­ence emerges from time to time in his work, but he would­n’t mean it in a good way. In 1995, between Powaqqat­si and Naqoyqat­si, he made a short called Evi­dence which, in the words of koyaanisqatsi.org, “looks into the eyes of chil­dren watch­ing tele­vi­sion — in this case Walt Disney’s Dum­bo. Though engaged in a dai­ly rou­tine, they appear drugged, retard­ed, like the patients of a men­tal hos­pi­tal.”

Accom­pa­ny­ing and in a sense com­ment­ing on their glazed, often slack-jawed expres­sions, we once again, as in Reg­gio’s trans­fix­ing fea­ture doc­u­men­taries, have a Glass-com­posed score. Unlike movie­go­ers in a the­ater, “tele­vi­sion view­ers become prey to the television’s own light impuls­es, they go into an altered state — a trans­fixed con­di­tion where the eyes, the mind, the breath­ing of the sub­ject is clear­ly under the con­trol of an out­side force. In a poet­ic sense and with­out exag­ger­at­ing one might say that the tele­vi­sion tech­nol­o­gy is eat­ing the sub­jects who sit before its gaze.”

In the more than two decades since, this kind of crit­i­cism of tele­vi­sion has giv­en way to a more gen­er­al crit­i­cism of elec­tron­ic media, most of whose cur­rent­ly pop­u­lar forms did­n’t exist in 1995; Reg­gio and Glass’ most recent col­lab­o­ra­tion, 2013’s Vis­i­tors, deals with “human­i­ty’s trance­like rela­tion­ship with tech­nol­o­gy.” You and your chil­dren may have escaped the “trac­tor beam that holds its sub­jects in total con­trol” as Evi­dence depicts it, but in the 21st cen­tu­ry the num­ber of trac­tor beams has great­ly mul­ti­plied. And so the ques­tion remains worth ask­ing: which ones have you under their con­trol?

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Koy­aanisqat­si at 1552% Speed

Ray Brad­bury Reveals the True Mean­ing of Fahren­heit 451: It’s Not About Cen­sor­ship, But Peo­ple “Being Turned Into Morons by TV”

Mar­shall McLuhan Explains Why We’re Blind to How Tech­nol­o­gy Changes Us, Rais­ing the Ques­tion: What Have the Inter­net & Social Media Done to Us?

The Case for Delet­ing Your Social Media Accounts & Doing Valu­able “Deep Work” Instead, Accord­ing to Prof. Cal New­port

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

The Last Surviving Witness of the Lincoln Assassination Appears on the TV Game Show “I’ve Got a Secret” (1956)


Let’s rewind the video­tape to 1956, to Samuel James Sey­mour’s appear­ance on the CBS tele­vi­sion show, “I’ve Got a Secret.” At 96 years of age, Sey­mour was the last sur­viv­ing per­son present at Ford’s The­ater the night Abra­ham Lin­coln was assas­si­nat­ed by John Wilkes Booth (April 14, 1865).

Only five years old at the time, Mr. Sey­mour trav­eled with his father to Wash­ing­ton D.C. on a busi­ness trip, where they attend­ed a per­for­mance of Our Amer­i­can Cousin. The young­ster caught a quick glimpse of the pres­i­dent, the play began, and the rest is, well, his­to­ry.

A quick foot­note: Samuel Sey­mour died two months after his TV appear­ance. His longevi­ty had some­thing to do, I imag­ine, with declin­ing those Win­stons over the years.

Find cours­es on the Civ­il War in our list of Free His­to­ry Cours­es, a sub­set of our col­lec­tion, 1,700 Free Online Cours­es from Top Uni­ver­si­ties.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Note: This post orig­i­nal­ly appeared on our site in August, 2011.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Errol Mor­ris Med­i­tates on the Mean­ing and His­to­ry of Abra­ham Lincoln’s Last Pho­to­graph

The Poet­ry of Abra­ham Lin­coln

Visu­al­iz­ing Slav­ery: The Map Abra­ham Lin­coln Spent Hours Study­ing Dur­ing the Civ­il War

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Marshall McLuhan Predicts That Electronic Media Will Displace the Book & Create Sweeping Changes in Our Everyday Lives (1960)

“The elec­tron­ic media haven’t wiped out the book: it’s read, used, and want­ed, per­haps more than ever. But the role of the book has changed. It’s no longer alone. It no longer has sole charge of our out­look, nor of our sen­si­bil­i­ties.” As famil­iar as those words may sound, they don’t come from one of the think pieces on the chang­ing media land­scape now pub­lished each and every day. They come from the mouth of mid­cen­tu­ry CBC tele­vi­sion host John O’Leary, intro­duc­ing an inter­view with Mar­shall McLuhan more than half a cen­tu­ry ago.

McLuhan, one of the most idio­syn­crat­ic and wide-rang­ing thinkers of the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry, would go on to become world famous (to the point of mak­ing a cameo in Woody Allen’s Annie Hall) as a prophet­ic media the­o­rist. He saw clear­er than many how the intro­duc­tion of mass media like radio and tele­vi­sion had changed us, and spoke with more con­fi­dence than most about how the media to come would change us. He under­stood what he under­stood about these process­es in no small part because he’d learned their his­to­ry, going all the way back to the devel­op­ment of writ­ing itself.

Writ­ing, in McLuhan’s telling, changed the way we thought, which changed the way we orga­nized our soci­eties, which changed the way we per­ceived things, which changed the way we inter­act. All of that holds truer for the print­ing press, and even truer still for tele­vi­sion. He told the sto­ry in his book The Guten­berg Galaxy, which he was work­ing on at the time of this inter­view in May of 1960, and which would intro­duce the term “glob­al vil­lage” to its read­ers, and which would crys­tal­lize much of what he talked about in this broad­cast. Elec­tron­ic media, in his view, “have made our world into a sin­gle unit.”

With this “con­tin­u­al­ly sound­ing trib­al drum” in place, “every­body gets the mes­sage all the time: a princess gets mar­ried in Eng­land, and ‘boom, boom, boom’ go the drums. We all hear about it. An earth­quake in North Africa, a Hol­ly­wood star gets drunk, away go the drums again.” The con­se­quence? “We’re re-trib­al­iz­ing. Invol­un­tar­i­ly, we’re get­ting rid of indi­vid­u­al­ism.” Where “just as books and their pri­vate point of view are being replaced by the new media, so the con­cepts which under­lie our actions, our social lives, are chang­ing.” No longer con­cerned with “find­ing our own indi­vid­ual way,” we instead obsess over “what the group knows, feel­ing as it does, act­ing ‘with it,’ not apart from it.”

Though McLuhan died in 1980, long before the appear­ance of the mod­ern inter­net, many of his read­ers have seen recent tech­no­log­i­cal devel­op­ments val­i­date his notion of the glob­al vil­lage — and his view of its per­ils as well as its ben­e­fits — more and more with time. At this point in his­to­ry, mankind can seem less unit­ed than ever than ever, pos­si­bly because tech­nol­o­gy now allows us to join any num­ber of glob­al “tribes.” But don’t we feel more pres­sure than ever to know just what those tribes know and feel just what they feel?

No won­der so many of those pieces that cross our news feeds today still ref­er­ence McLuhan and his pre­dic­tions. Just this past week­end, Quartz’s Lila MacLel­lan did so in argu­ing that our media, “while glob­al in reach, has come to be essen­tial­ly con­trolled by busi­ness­es that use data and cog­ni­tive sci­ence to keep us spell­bound and loy­al based on our own tastes, fuel­ing the relent­less rise of hyper-per­son­al­iza­tion” as “deep-learn­ing pow­ered ser­vices promise to become even bet­ter cus­tom-con­tent tai­lors, lim­it­ing what indi­vid­u­als and groups are exposed to even as the uni­verse of prod­ucts and sources of infor­ma­tion expands.” Long live the indi­vid­ual, the indi­vid­ual is dead: step back, and it all looks like one of those con­tra­dic­tions McLuhan could have deliv­ered as a res­o­nant sound bite indeed.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Mar­shall McLuhan in Two Min­utes: A Brief Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion to the 1960s Media The­o­rist Who Pre­dict­ed Our Present

Has Tech­nol­o­gy Changed Us?: BBC Ani­ma­tions Answer the Ques­tion with the Help of Mar­shall McLuhan

McLuhan Said “The Medi­um Is The Mes­sage”; Two Pieces Of Media Decode the Famous Phrase

The Vision­ary Thought of Mar­shall McLuhan, Intro­duced and Demys­ti­fied by Tom Wolfe

Mar­shall McLuhan, W.H. Auden & Buck­min­ster Fuller Debate the Virtues of Mod­ern Tech­nol­o­gy & Media (1971)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Watch Randy Newman’s Tour of Los Angeles’ Sunset Boulevard, and You’ll Love L.A. Too

“The longer I live here,” a Los Ange­les-based friend recent­ly said, “the more ‘I Love L.A.’ sounds like an uniron­ic trib­ute to this city.” That hit sin­gle by Randy New­man, a singer-song­writer not known for his sim­ple earnest­ness, has pro­duced a mul­ti­plic­i­ty of inter­pre­ta­tions since it came out in 1983, the year before Los Ange­les pre­sent­ed a sun­ny, col­or­ful, for­ward-look­ing image to the world as the host of the Sum­mer Olympic Games. Lis­ten­ers still won­der now what they won­dered back then: when New­man sings the prais­es — lit­er­al­ly — of the likes of Impe­r­i­al High­way, a “big nasty red­head,” Cen­tu­ry Boule­vard, the San­ta Ana winds, and bums on their knees, does he mean it?

“I Love L.A.“ ‘s both smirk­ing and enthu­si­as­tic music video offers a view of New­man’s 1980s Los Ange­les, but fif­teen years lat­er, he starred in an episode of the pub­lic tele­vi­sion series Great Streets that presents a slight­ly more up-to-date, and much more nuanced, pic­ture of the city. In it, the native Ange­leno looks at his birth­place through the lens of the 27-mile Sun­set Boule­vard, Los Ange­les’ most famous street — or, in his own words, “one of those places the movies would’ve had to invent, if it did­n’t already exist.”

His­to­ri­an Leonard Pitt (who appears along­side fig­ures like film­mak­er Alli­son Anders, artist Ed Ruscha, and Doors key­boardist Ray Man­zarek) describes Sun­set as the one place along which you can see “every stra­tum of Los Ange­les in the short­est peri­od of time.” Or as New­man puts it, “Like a lot of the peo­ple who live here, Sun­set is hum­ble and hard-work­ing at the begin­ning,” on its inland end. “Go fur­ther and it gets a lit­tle self-indul­gent and out­ra­geous” before it “straight­ens itself out and grows rich, fat, and respectable.” At its coastal end “it gets real twist­ed, so there’s noth­ing left to do but jump into the Pacif­ic Ocean.”

New­man’s west­ward jour­ney, made in an open-topped con­vert­ible (albeit not “I Love L.A.“ ‘s 1955 Buick) takes him from Union Sta­tion (Amer­i­ca’s last great rail­way ter­mi­nal and the ori­gin point of “L.A.‘s long, long-antic­i­pat­ed sub­way sys­tem”) to Aimee Sem­ple McPher­son­’s Angelus Tem­ple, now-gen­tri­fied neigh­bor­hoods like Sil­ver Lake then only in mid-gen­tri­fi­ca­tion, the hum­ble stu­dio where he laid tracks for some of his biggest records, the cor­ner where D.W. Grif­fith built Intol­er­ance’s ancient Baby­lon set, the sto­ried celebri­ty hide­out of the Chateau Mar­mont, UCLA (“almost my alma mater”), the Lake Shrine Tem­ple of the Self-Real­iza­tion Fel­low­ship, and final­ly to edge of the con­ti­nent.

More recent­ly, Los Ange­les Times archi­tec­ture crit­ic Christo­pher Hawthorne trav­eled the entire­ty of Sun­set Boule­vard again, but on foot and in the oppo­site direc­tion. The east-to-west route, he writes, “offers a way to explore an intrigu­ing notion: that the key to deci­pher­ing con­tem­po­rary Los Ange­les is to focus not on growth and expan­sion, those build­ing blocks of 20th cen­tu­ry South­ern Cal­i­for­nia, but instead on all the ways in which the city is dou­bling back on itself and get­ting denser.” For so much of the city’s his­to­ry, “search­ing for a metaphor to define Sun­set Boule­vard, writ­ers” — or musi­cians or film­mak­ers or any num­ber of oth­er cre­ators besides — “have described it as a riv­er run­ning west and feed­ing into the Pacif­ic. But the riv­er flows the oth­er direc­tion now.”

Los Ange­les has indeed plunged into a thor­ough trans­for­ma­tion since New­man first simul­ta­ne­ous­ly cel­e­brat­ed and sat­i­rized it, but some­thing of the dis­tinc­tive­ly breezy spir­it into which he tapped will always remain. “There‘s some kind of igno­rance L.A. has that I’m proud of. The open car and the red­head and the Beach Boys, the night just cool­ing off after a hot day, you got your arm around some­body,” he said to the Los Ange­les Week­ly a few years after tap­ing his Great Streets tour. ”That sounds real­ly good to me. I can‘t think of any­thing a hell of a lot bet­ter than that.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Glenn Gould Gives Us a Tour of Toron­to, His Beloved Home­town (1979)

Charles Bukows­ki Takes You on a Very Strange Tour of Hol­ly­wood

Join Clive James on His Clas­sic Tele­vi­sion Trips to Paris, LA, Tokyo, Rio, Cairo & Beyond

The City in Cin­e­ma Mini-Doc­u­men­taries Reveal the Los Ange­les of Blade Run­ner, Her, Dri­ve, Repo Man, and More

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities and cul­ture. He’s at work on the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les, the video series The City in Cin­e­ma, the crowd­fund­ed jour­nal­ism project Where Is the City of the Future?, and the Los Ange­les Review of Books’ Korea Blog. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Joni Mitchell Sings an Achingly Pretty Version of “Both Sides Now” on the Mama Cass TV Show (1969)

“Records can be a bad trip. The audi­ence can play your mis­takes over and over. In a tele­vi­sion spe­cial they see you once and you work hard to make sure they’re see­ing you at your best.” 

Mama Cass Elliot, The Argus

It’s hard to imag­ine any­one blessed with Mama Cass’ gold­en pipes being embar­rassed by a record­ed per­for­mance. A live gig, yes, though, celebri­ties of her era were sub­ject­ed to far few­er wit­ness­es.

The Inter­net was an undream­able lit­tle dream in 1969, when the sole episode of The Mama Cass Tele­vi­sion Show aired. The for­mer singer of the Mamas and the Papas died five years lat­er, pre­sum­ably unaware that future gen­er­a­tions would have knowl­edge of, let alone access to, her failed pilot.

She may have described her vari­ety show as “low key” to the Fre­mont, Cal­i­for­nia Argus, but the guest list was padded with high wattage friends, includ­ing come­di­an Bud­dy Hack­ett, and singers Mary Tra­vers and John Sebas­t­ian. Joni Mitchell, above, deliv­ered an above-reproach per­for­mance of “Both Sides Now.”

Lat­er, Mitchell and Tra­vers joined their host­ess for the heart­felt ren­di­tion of “I Shall Be Released” below, a per­for­mance that is only slight­ly marred by Elliot’s insane cos­tume and an unnec­es­sar­i­ly syrupy back­ing arrange­ment of strings and reeds.

Those who can’t live with­out see­ing the com­plete show can pur­chase DVDs online.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Vin­tage Video of Joni Mitchell Per­form­ing in 1965 — Before She Was Even Named Joni Mitchell

James Tay­lor and Joni Mitchell, Live and Togeth­er (1970)

Watch 1970s Ani­ma­tions of Songs by Joni Mitchell, Jim Croce & The Kinks, Aired on The Son­ny & Cher Show

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  She’ll is appear­ing onstage in New York City through June 26 in Paul David Young’s polit­i­cal satire, Faust 3. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

Meet Alexander Graham Bell, Inventor of the Telephone and Popular TV Pitchman

Mr. Wat­son, come here! I want you to tell me why I keep show­ing up in tele­vi­sion com­mer­cials. Is it because they think I invent­ed the tele­vi­sion?

- The ghost of Alexan­der Gra­ham Bell

Not at all, my dear Mr. Bell. A sec­ond’s worth of research reveals that a 21-year-old upstart named Phi­lo Tay­lor Farnsworth invent­ed tele­vi­sion. By 1927, when he unveiled it to the pub­lic, you’d already been dead for five years.

You invent­ed the telephone, a fact of which we’re all very aware.

Though you might want to look into intel­lec­tu­al prop­er­ty law.… His­toric fig­ures make pop­u­lar pitch­men, espe­cial­ly if — like Lin­coln, Coper­ni­cus, and a red hot Alexan­der Hamil­ton, they’ve been in the grave for over 100 years. (Hint — you’ve got five years to go.)

Or you could take it as a com­pli­ment! You’ve made an impres­sion so last­ing, the briefest of estab­lish­ing shots is all we tele­vi­sion audi­ences need to under­stand the adver­tis­er’s premise.

Thus­ly can you be co-opt­ed into sell­ing the Amer­i­can pub­lic on the appar­ent­ly rev­o­lu­tion­ary con­cept of chick­en for break­fast, above.

And that’s just the tip of the ice­berg!

Mr. Wat­son gets a cameo in your 1975 ad for Care­free Gum. You def­i­nite­ly come off the bet­ter of the two.

You’re an obvi­ous choice for a recent AT&T spot trac­ing a line from your rev­e­la­to­ry moment to 20-some­thing  hip­sters wield­ing smart­phones and sparklers on a Brook­lyn rooftop. Their devices aren’t the only thing con­nect­ing you. It’s also the beards…

Apolo­gies for the beard­less­ness of this 10 year old, low-bud­get spot for Able Com­put­ing in Papua New Guinea. Pos­si­bly the cos­tumer thought Ein­stein invent­ed the phone? Or maybe the cre­ative direc­tor was count­ing on the local view­ing audi­ence not to sweat the small stuff. Your inven­tion mat­ters more than your facial hair.

Lego took a cue from the 80s Mup­pet Babies craze by send­ing you back to child­hood. They also sad­dled you and your mom  with Amer­i­can accents, a regret­tably com­mon prac­tice. I bet you would’ve liked Legos, though. They’re like blocks.

As for this one, your guess is as good as mine.

Read­ers, please share your favorite ads fea­tur­ing his­toric fig­ures in the com­ments below.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Hear the Voice of Alexan­der Gra­ham Bell for the First Time in a Cen­tu­ry

Hear Kurt Von­negut Vis­it the After­life & Inter­view Dead His­tor­i­cal Fig­ures: Isaac New­ton, Adolf Hitler, Eugene Debs & More (Audio, 1998)

Thomas Edison’s Silent Film of the “Fartiste” Who Delight­ed Crowds at Le Moulin Rouge (1900)

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  See her onstage in New York City in Paul David Young’s Faust 3, an indict­ment of the Trump admin­is­tra­tion that adapts and man­gles Goethe’s Faust (Parts 1 and 2) and the Gospels in the King James trans­la­tion, as well as bits of Yeats, Shake­speare, Christ­mas car­ols, Stephen Fos­ter, John Donne, Hein­er Müller, Julia Ward Howe, and Abel Meeropol. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

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